Mother (3 page)

She smiled. “You have no idea, Jason. None.”

“It wasn’t all that bad, was it?”

Claire watched the trees pass by. “We’ll see what you have to say about her a few weeks from now.”

He chuckled and squeezed her knee. She wished she felt playful enough to squeeze his, but between the stress and the ache in her shoulder, she didn’t have the energy. She winced and rolled her shoulder.

“Is it bothering you again?”

“A little.” She’d had trouble with her right shoulder for as long as she could remember. It was worse when she sat still too long. “I’ll take some ibuprofen if it gets worse.”

She turned the radio back on and the Wilson sisters were belting out
Magic Man
. “It’s your song, Magic Man,” she said, cranking it up.
 

He laughed and gave her a wink.

When she’d met Jason in college, he really had seemed magical to her. He’d been gorgeous - he
still
was
gorgeous, with broad shoulders, a sandy-blond brush cut, dimples, and blue eyes fringed by dark lashes she’d always envied. He’d been a senior, she a sophomore, but the moment they met, their chemistry had been undeniable. He was five years older, a pilot in the Navy Reserves, and he’d come back to college because he needed a bachelor’s degree to follow his dream of becoming a pilot for a major airline. Claire herself was carrying a heavy class load and working full-time - she had been ever since running away from Mother the day after she received her high school diploma. Her field was art and design, and she was good at it, in part because Mother used to go through her room and throw all her drawings in the fireplace. In retrospect, she knew it had been a good thing - it had fueled her desire to be the best graphic artist she could possibly be - but she still resented Mother’s invasions of her privacy … and wasn’t looking forward to more of them. She shivered.

Claire and Jason had moved in together six months after meeting, and got married as soon as Jason graduated and landed a full-time job at the airline. She continued her studies, graduated with honors, and was soon employed as well. Two years after college, they bought their beautiful little cottage in Berkeley and two new cars. Life was good, and the future was bright.

And then, IMRU, the Silicon Valley company she worked for, went out of business and laid off a hundred graphic artists and designers, herself included. It didn’t seem so bad at first, because Jason made good money and encouraged her to start her own business - he knew that was what she really wanted - so they tightened their belts a little and worked hard.

And then, last June, Jason had his first seizure. That was a death sentence for a pilot. They soon lost the house and sold nearly everything they owned trying to pay bills, eventually ending up in the scuzzy Oakland apartment. Jason was working as a waiter in a posh San Francisco restaurant and she took a waitressing job nearby because they’d sold her little white Neon to make a few more house payments. They’d been fools to do that.

Now everything they owned was in the Prius and the small U-Haul trailer they towed. The last of their furniture had been sold before leaving Oakland - they didn’t want to bring any cockroaches along.
 

She glanced at Jason. His medication nearly guaranteed he wouldn’t have another seizure, but that meant nothing to the FAA. He’d become depressed, so she’d put on a happy face - even tried to convince him - and herself - that a little adversity would be good for them. There was unemployment, and her business was coming together, after all.
 

And then she’d missed her period.
 

That changed everything.

Magic Man
wrapped up as they passed the exit to the caverns and Jason turned the volume down. “Are you nervous?”

It wouldn’t be long before they hit the town limits. “Yes. I just keep telling myself it’s for six months or less. Preferably a
lot
less.”

“Remember, if it’s intolerable, we’ll find an apartment.”

“And we won’t tell her where it is, right?”

“That’s the deal.” They were at 3,500 feet now - the sign said they were at Snapdragon Summit - and they began a slow descent into the valley. He took two more curves and then Snapdragon came into view at the 2,800-foot mark.
 

Claire’s stomach roiled and her heart pounded in time with a sudden headache. The pain in her shoulder flared hot and bright.
 

“I’m sorry we have to do this, sweetheart.”
 

Father Andy’s Fundraiser

Father Andrew Pike strolled among the booths set up in the Holy Sacramental Catholic Church’s school auditorium, smiling and nodding, greeting and talking. His congregation was nothing if not loyal, and many had turned out to sell their wares to help raise funds for new hymnals, bibles, and choir robes. He was very proud of his flock.

All around him, pies and cookies were flying off tables. Homemade jams and chutneys were selling like bibles in purgatory, and Mrs. Johnson’s hand-stitched baby blankets were nearly gone - and it wasn’t even three o’clock yet. Mr. Lindon’s wooden toys sold well even though Christmas had just passed, and Babs Vandercooth’s patchwork animals were selling out. She’d even sold two of her beautiful patchwork quilts before noon.
 

Truly, the economy had improved. Just a few years ago, the Winter Wonderland Charity Sale had brought in only two hundred dollars. Today, the sellers had surpassed that in less than an hour, probably because Priscilla Martin had taken over the Internet and newspaper publicity for the event this year. She’d even talked Ace Etheridge, the
Snapdragon Daily
’s publisher, into donating ad space in every issue. It didn’t hurt that he was a nominal member of the congregation, of course, but he’d never been so generous before Priscilla twisted his arm. Father Andy smiled. Priscilla had recently taken a class on building websites so that she could turn Holy Sacramental’s outdated site into an attractive, welcoming place for online visitors. He was sure the new website was another reason the Winter Wonderland sale was so crowded. Even out-of-towners had come this year.
 

As he neared Priscilla Martin’s jewelry booth, he was surprised to see Phyllis Stine, in her signature jangling plastic bracelets and calf-high go-go boots, manning the table. He was even more surprised to see that Geneva-Marie Collins’ counter neighbored Priscilla’s; it seemed a sign they might be getting along. Priscilla had been the president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary and leader and organizer of most of the charity work done in the name of Holy Sacramental since the time of Andy’s predecessor, Father Dave Flannigan. This did not please Geneva-Marie, who wanted to guide the Ladies Auxiliary herself.
 

A spicy, seductive aroma brought him to a stop. He greeted Giuseppe Bartoli, who was selling pasta salads and fine deli meats imported from his store in town.

“Father Andy, come have a taste of my antipasto salad. I know how much you like it.”

“Gladly!”

 
Giuseppe scooped a big spoonful of salad into a sample cup, stuck a spork in it, and handed it to Andy, who tasted it and closed his eyes. “It’s heavenly, Giuseppe. Please save a quart for me, won’t you?”

“I will, Father.” Giuseppe smiled, then went to help a customer.
 

“Father!”

The priest turned at the sound of Quinton Everett’s voice. “Why Quinton, how good of you to come today!”

“My pleasure, Father Andy.” The president of Snapdragon Bank and Trust had forsaken his usual charcoal suit and silk tie for Dockers and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt. He smiled, showing even white teeth. His dark hair had such a perfect sprinkling of gray at each temple that Andy suspected he had it done at the barbershop.
 

Father Andy smiled. “And what are you shopping for today?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to shop - I’m taking the Little League out for pizza. We’re going to do a little pre-season planning - but I have something for you.” Quinton reached into his back pocket and extracted his wallet. “This is for new surplices for the altar boys.” He handed a check to Andy. “We can’t forget them, now can we, Father?”
 

Andy accepted the check, shocked at the amount. “Quinton, this is
very
generous of you.”

“I want them to have the best.” Quinton smiled. “The very best.”

“This will buy at least fifty surplices. May we use the overage toward choir robes?”

Quinton Everett’s eyes darted back and forth in that odd way he had. “As long as it’s for the boys, Father, use the excess however you see fit.”

“I’ll do that, Quinton. Thank you.” He watched the banker head for the exit. The man often made Andy uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite define. He wished his mentor, Father Flannigan, was here to discuss it but since he’d resigned he avoided most events. Though Andy had been in charge of the church for several years now, he still felt wet behind the ears, and his boyish looks didn’t help any.
 

He headed over to Priscilla Martin’s jewelry table.

“Hello, Father,” said Phyllis Stine. She was a gangly woman who favored puffy platinum hair and the mold-blue eye shadow of the sixties. Her face was stretched so tight it was alarming. He suspected it was as plastic as her bangle bracelets.

“Good afternoon, Phyllis.” Andy looked at the stack of brightly colored booklets at the table’s edge. The top one’s title was
Kiss of the Wild Crystal
, the author listed as Constance Welling. It showed a woman touching her lips to a purple hunk of quartz. “What are these, may I ask?” He picked up the top one. The next one down was called
My Crystal and Me
and showed a poorly drawn child peering at a glowing stone.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind, Father. I’m trying to sell some of these - for the charity of course. My little sister died earlier this year - she was
murdered!
”
 

“I’m so sorry.”

“Anyway,” Phyllis plowed on in her mile-a-minute way, “She was a writer and she had this huge estate that she left to me but after paying off all her bills, all they had left to send me were a couple pallets of her books.”

Father Andy eyed the stack dubiously. “Of course. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, it’s okay, Father. Constance was probably asking for it. She never was what you’d call a ‘good girl.’”

“Still, she was your sister. And murdered. I’ll say a mass for her if you’d like.”

“That’s very sweet of you, but she’d hate that. She was one of those New Age nuts, you know?”

Ill at ease, Andy changed the subject. “Is Priscilla on a break?”
 

Phyllis shook her head, plastic hoops clicking. “No, she left early. Her daughter’s coming to town.”

“I didn’t realize she had a daughter.”

“Oh, yes. Her name is Carlene. She moved away long before you were on the scene. It’s been ten years since any of us have seen her. Hopefully, she’s better behaved these days. Prissy said she was
quite
a trial back then.”

Father Andy nodded and looked down at the chunky jewelry on the table. Jewelry-making was Priscilla’s hobby and she was good at it, though it wasn’t to his taste. Unlike Phyllis’ plastic persuasions, much of Priscilla’s jewelry involved large beads that he privately thought were better suited to Wilma Flintstone. And the rest of the accessories, well, honestly, he found them unnerving.
 

As a priest, he possessed intimate understanding of relics, religious and otherwise, and Priscilla’s human hair necklaces and bracelets reminded him of such sacramentals. She did beautiful work, beading the hair with complimentary colors, showing it to its best advantage, but she always wore one piece that put him off: a necklace made from the golden locks of her long-deceased son, Timothy. Andy knew she missed the boy, but it didn’t seem healthy - he’d been gone for twenty years.

Priscilla’s hair chain was slender, braided and studded with tiny gold beads. Fourteen karat.
He wished she hadn’t told him she’d crafted it
after
Timothy died.

Andy had been squeamish about physical relics ever since he was a boy, and he knew it was irrational. He told himself Priscilla was simply a woman who kept a reminder of her son near her heart, that it was an example of her ability to create beauty where others found only darkness. His own church was laden with sacramentals and relics far more gruesome. But somehow, it didn’t seem like the same thing.

Resisting the urge to cross himself, Father Andrew moved on, smiling and nodding, greeting and talking.
 

Mark Twain Slept Here

The voice came at her from blackness, insistent, and hissing:
“Touch them! Touch them!”

“No,”
Claire said. Images flashed: nylon rope, a looming black shadow, a tear slipping from a frightened blue eye.
 

“Touch them!”

Someone yanked her arm. Claire pulled back.
“No!”
 

“Touch them, Carlene! Touch them!”
 

Another hard yank, and searing pain shot through her arm, blazing into her shoulder. In the dream, Claire screamed. But still … she would not touch them … whatever
they
were.

“Touch them!”

“No!”

A new voice, louder and deeper, snapped her eyes open. “Claire? Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Cool sweat chilled her forehead. She was in the car. With Jason. She was safe.
Just a dream.
But it was more than that. Something dark and unsettling hovered just beyond her reach. And then … it was gone.

Jason glanced at her. “I think you were having a nightmare, sweetie.”

“I’m fine.” Her voice was thin.

“We’re in town.”

She sat up and loosened the seat belt, ignoring the tremble in her hands, the ache in her shoulder.
 

Snapdragon looked as quaint and lost in time as it had a decade ago. As they left the highway and turned onto Main Street, a blast of nausea hit her. She uncapped a bottle of ginger ale and took a long pull, her shoulder aching more now than it had in years. Bruce Springsteen sang about taking
Thunder Road
. Inspired, she rolled down the window and let the wind blow her hair back. The cold air felt good on her face.